


fishbowl

by cloudsovercalifornia



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depersonalization, Depression, Domestic Violence, M/M, Richard is a very corrupt, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Ideation, Unhealthy Relationships, aquascaping as therapy, billionaires behaving badly, breakup beards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:36:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsovercalifornia/pseuds/cloudsovercalifornia
Summary: Richard Hendricks is the billionaire founder and CEO of Pied Piper Capital Management. Gavin Belson is the billionaire founder and CEO of Hooli. When Richard decides to make an enemy of Gavin, things don’t quite go as planned. AU. Inspired by 2017 documentary Betting On Zero.





	1. front cover

  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152326003@N08/37697701361/in/dateposted-public/)  
  



	2. anonymity

_“...You’re sitting pretty at #2 on the Forbes list of 30 Entrepreneurs Under 30. I assume you’re_ swimming _with offers for book deals and whatnot.” Conan O'Brien gestures at his guest._

 _“I did accept one offer a while back. I’m super proud to say that my book,_ Hendricks: Escaping the Fishbowl _, hits shelves Friday.” Richard Hendricks smiles._

_The audience claps._

_“Congratulations. That’s quite a milestone. Now, you are the founder and CEO of Pied Piper Capital Management, which is a... unique name. Can you tell us the story behind that name?”_

_“I don’t think ‘Pied Piper’ is any weirder than ‘Hooli.’ But yeah, Pied Piper is an odd name for a hedge fund management company. In fact, I’ve had people tell me it sounds like the name of a doomed tech startup.” (The audience laughs.) “We’ve all heard the classic fairy tale of the pied piper, right? The one where the piper plays a song to lure the rats out of the village."_

_“So what you’re saying is, if people don’t pay you, you’ll kidnap their children.”_

_Richard and the audience laugh._

Gavin, listening at low volume through his headphones, glares down at the video playing on his iPhone. He and Denpok are sitting cross-legged, facing each other. They are meditating in Gavin’s meditation room, or at least Denpok is. To this day, Gavin has never had a successful meditation session - nor will he ever admit that meditating does nothing for him. He half-thinks that it’s downright impossible for anyone to empty their minds of intruding worldly thoughts. Billionaires like him should get a pass, anyway. He can worry about ending samsara after he’s achieved his company’s goals, Gavin thinks, as he navigates to the Twitter page of @hendrickspp. 

Without opening his eyes, Denpok says, “I am sensing a new obstacle to enlightenment.”

Gavin wonders if the fact that Denpok noticed is a) impressive, or b) revealing of the spiritual advisor’s lapse in focus. “This _prick_ just bet one billion dollars that my company will go under. His Twitter is full of militant nonsense. I quote: ‘Hooli’s spiritual health products are bullshit + a distraction from the company’s business model. #pyramidscheme.’”

“Interesting. You have manifested the classic duality of dvesha and raga,” Denpok replies, somehow irritating Gavin with his calm tone. 

“I object to that last part.” 

* * *

Richard drops his hands in his lap. There’s no need to steer in this moment, as he’s sitting in the usual NYC traffic. It’s a bright, clear day in October. Still warm, too - not yet graced by autumn's chill. The in-dash screen of his silver Tesla lights up with an incoming call from JARED DUNN. Richard answers it.

 _“Richard,”_ Jared greets over the sound of dogs barking and a parrot screeching. _“I just picked up Ecbert from the vet. I’m on the way to drop off your deposit for the venue. Anything else you need me to do before I head back to the office?”_

“Yes, I need you to get in contact with Gavin Belson.” He can _feel_ Jared’s hesitation emanating through the screen.

 _“Gavin’s team blacklisted me after the first seven times I tried to reach him for you.”_ In all the time he’s known his boss, Jared still uses his phone voice with him. _“His PA told me to ‘go audition for the role of main female character who dies of leukemia in a Korean drama.’”_

“I have a feeling he will finally cave. Tell him I have a reservation at Catalina Acosta’s newest restaurant for 8pm tomorrow.”

_“I hate to say it, but Anonymity is booked full for the next three months.”_

A notification pops up on Richard’s dash screen. “Sorry, incoming call from Ron. Just make it happen, okay? I’ll see you at the office.” He hangs up on Jared and answers RON LAFLAMME.

 _“Heyyy, Ricky ‘Ricks. You weren’t thinking of meeting with_ Gavin Belson, _were you?”_ Cue guitar strumming in the background. 

“How - did Jared tell you?”

 _“Who’s Jared? Anyway, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t remind you_ what a horrible idea that is. _Say Gavin Belson punches you, like that one rando did. If you punch him back too hard, you could be liable. His legal team's good, almost as good as yours. After what you've done, they'll be out for blood.”_

“No one’s punching anyone,” Richard says, exasperated. Traffic’s moving again, and he’s crawling behind a yellow cab. There’s another yellow cab behind him. Yellow cab sandwich.

 _“You sure? I’d be_ real _tempted to punch him back. Maybe even throw the first punch.”_

Richard sighs. “Let’s not dwell on hypotheticals. I’m meeting with Gavin, and that’s final.”

* * *

Richard checks his watch again. 8:09pm. So much for Gavin Belson’s reputation for punctuality. He’s been re-reading the Anonymity menu out of boredom. Pointless, really. It has five items on it. He fiddles with his tie. He was never a suit-and-tie kind of guy, but it’s better than turning into the perma-hoodie-and-jeans kind of guy. 

Gavin approaches the table. He is wearing a black running sweater, form-fitting track pants, and neon green running shoes. Richard stands up and goes in for a handshake, which turns out to be a death-grip contest in disguise.

“You’re wearing a suit for once,” Gavin says. 

“And you aren’t.”

They take a seat at the table.

“Sorry I’m late.” Gavin’s tone of voice is disturbingly pleasant. “I was finalizing a last-minute deal with a children’s charity. You know how that goes.”

“Mmm.”

“Or maybe I was just having cold feet about meeting the man who is _talking shit about me on Twitter and short-selling Hooli stock.”_ He slams his hands on the table.

A waiter walks up to them. He is obviously hiding his curiosity. “Welcome to Anonymity, Mr. Hendricks, Mr. Belson. My name is Anonymous and I will be taking care of you gentlemen tonight. Can I start you two off with anything to drink?”

“Two waters, please,” Richard says. “And we’ll both do the _Mar_ series. Each course includes a wine pairing, right?

“That is correct.”

“Excellent. Oh, and when we’re done, bring the check directly to me, would you?”

“Of course.” He collects the menus and walks away.

Richard turns back to his guest, lets himself smirk. “Mr. Belson, you've been in the game longer than I've been alive. Trust me when I say, it was a business decision. Nothing personal.”

“Ah, but I don’t trust you or anything about you. Not your deceptively expensive hoodies. Not your professionally tousled hair. Least of all, your oh-so-relatable-awkward-nerd schtick.”

Richard folds his arms. He knows he’s taking the bait, but he can’t help himself. “Some people just refuse to accept that I’m the real fucking deal. See, _you_ were born with your hand in your father’s wallet. Newsflash: any idiot could turn millions into billions. _I_ clawed my way to the top from nothing. I’ve been pissed on, shat on, bukkake’d on-”

The waiter avoids eye contact with Richard as he silently drops off two glasses of water. 

“Not literally,” Richard tells the waiter, who is already leaving. He continues, “When I had just moved to Manhattan, I was sharing a 500 square foot studio with six other guys. I went through a string of unpaid internships until I landed a job as a stockbroker at this one brokerage firm. Do you know what my boss did to me on my second day? He swallowed my goldfish whole and fired me, in front of everyone. My goldfish’s name was Leonhard. I had taken him with me when I left Oklahoma, and he was my only fucking friend in New York at the time. After that, I was depressed. Until I wasn’t.” He takes a sip of water. 

Gavin tilts his head to the side. “You know, the day you joined the three-comma club was the day you were supposed to hang up your underdog costume. You remind me of a suburban white boy who raps about life on the streets and reads Wikihow articles like 'How to be a Gangster.'”

Richard wonders if table-flipping is appropriate behavior at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

* * *

Gavin returns to the table. “Well, Richard, it was a _pleasure_ having dinner with you. By the way, I paid the bill and the tip.”

Richard stands up. “Excuse me? You said you were going to the restroom.”

“Did I?”

“Call off your driver. I’ll take you home," Richard sighs.

Gavin barks a laugh. “By that, you mean you’ll dump my body in the bay?”

Richard shrugs one shoulder. “Guess you’ll find out.”

* * *

Richard and Gavin walk together to the parking garage. Their out-of-sync footsteps echo around the concrete chamber. Richard lets Gavin into his black Tesla. 

“Do you always drive yourself?” Gavin asks. 

Richard hands Gavin his iPhone, which has the GPS app open. “Yes. Put in your address.”

When Gavin takes the phone, he accidentally touches Richard’s hand. Richard gives him a funny look. Gavin starts typing on the screen but stops halfway through, distracted by Richard fiddling with his tie. He leans over and grabs the tie, pulling Richard closer. Their faces are inches apart. Richard’s wide blue eyes dart up and down, tracing Gavin’s eyes and lips. Gavin closes the gap - he’s had more wine than Richard, after all.

Richard breaks the kiss after a moment and pulls away. His ears are red. He clears his throat. “I’m having an investment club party on my yacht this Saturday night.”

“Do you even listen to yourself?” Gavin snorts.

Richard’s composed now, like nothing had just happened between them. “It’s not like that. We dress shitty, and listen to shitty music, and drink shitty beer. The theme’s gonna be 2000-2009. Cuz nostalgia. Be chill if you could come.”

“Really.” Gavin raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we would love if someone could tell us stories about the war…”

“Funny.” Gavin fastens his seatbelt; the action feels oddly metaphorical.

Richard does the same and starts the car. “No coworkers. No business. Can you make it?”

“Maybe.”


	3. firethroat

Gavin’s black leather jacket flaps in the salt breeze. Richard’s yacht, _Verona_ , wasn’t hard to find: he needed merely to follow the sound of godawful millennial music (Darude - “Sandstorm”, as it were) to where it was docked at the pier. The boat is definitely over-capacity, he notes, as he squeezes his way around the deck. Someone is passing around the largest gravity bong he’s ever seen. He wanders around inside, steps over a group of people doing lines off a Japanese tea table, and then circles back out to the bow. Spots Richard in the crowd at last: he’s leaned against the railing, red Solo cup in hand, talking to a kid who’s dressed like a 2003 Warped Tour attendee.

“...And then Anna Kendrick came up to me and was like, ‘Oh my God, I thought you were Hugh Laurie’,” Richard says.

“You know what, I kinda see it now.” Warped Tour kid takes a sip of his drink. “Great choice of theme, by the way.”

“Right? I hate how everyone ignores this magnificent era.” Richard spots Gavin and waves him over. “Gavin! You actually showed up.” 

Gavin looks Richard up and down. The boy’s wearing a polo shirt with aviators clipped to the collar, knee-length shorts, and Sperry top-siders. “My God,” he yells over the music (which has switched to “Something In Your Mouth” by Nickelback). “You are the whitest white boy I have ever seen.”

“Thanks!” Richard yells back. “I really nailed it this time.”

Richard introduces him to his friend, Bighead (or was it Baghead? It’s way too loud for conversation). Gavin is strangely relieved when Big-bag-head doesn’t recognize him or his name, but he still turns to walk away.

“Hey, where are you going?” Richard asks. “We’re gonna float out now.”

“I just realized I am the oldest person here, and I’m not dressed ironically, so I’m going to leave.”

Richard lunges forward and grabs Gavin’s arm. “Stay for the CharDee MacDennis playoffs, at least. You can be on my team. “

Gavin turns around. “The _what_ playoffs?” 

“CharDee MacDennis: Game of Games. Don’t worry, you can get in my backpack. There will be two winners in the end. Losers have to invest in the winners’ choice of garbage stocks.”

“I still don’t understand, but alright. I’ll play.”

“Fuck yeah. Now, you need to get caught up. Rolling Rock or Natty Light?”

Gavin shoots him a withering glare. There is a such thing as _too_ committed, he thinks. “Is death an option?”

Richard beams in return. “Rolling Rock, coming right up.”

* * *

Pakistani Justin Guarini takes off his curly wig in defeat. His teammate, Satanic Kelly Clarkson, folds his arms over his baby blue tank top, unreactive. Richard’s smug in his victory. It was the bloodiest and most shameless battle he’s ever fought - they will be referencing this game for months. He thought Gilfoyle would never crack in the last level (spirit), but Gavin was suspiciously good for someone who had never played CDMD before. Despite the fact that Gavin had just met Dinesh and Gilfoyle, he found something… oh yes he did.

“Smash! Smash! Smash!” chants the group of spectators.

“Well, you heard our audience,” Richard prompts Gavin, who nods.

The two of them throw the figurines on the ground and stomp them to pieces.

Richard strikes a judicial pose. “Dinesh Chugtai and Bertram Gilfoyle, I sentence you to…”

“Have mercy, please…” Dinesh murmurs. Gilfoyle shakes his head.

“...100 shares each of Facebook, held for 6 months!” 

“… Fuck me,” Dinesh groans.

“You asshole,” says Gilfoyle.

The audience cheers as Richard laughs. 

Gavin takes him aside. “Are you sure Facebook is garbage stock?”

Richard grins. “It’s not about financial punishment. They can afford it. It’s about the principle. Dinesh and Gilfoyle will go insane having to see ‘FB’ in their portfolios every day. Especially Gilfoyle. He’s the ultimate contrarian.”

Richard’s vindictive side is sexier than it should be, Gavin thinks. Nothing good can come of this. “I see. You know, for a second there, I thought you were going to say Hooli.” 

“Yeah, and undo all of my hard work?” Richard’s drunk and high enough to check Gavin out shamelessly. He leans into Gavin’s ear. “Swing by my place after I kick everyone out.”

And then Richard’s off to resume his hostly duties, leaving Gavin alone to ponder his current situation: he’s drunk and trapped on a boat out in the water, his present company is a bunch of hipster strangers, and he’s just been propositioned by a punk ass new money _kid._

Basically, he’s in _way_ over his head.

* * *

_Cold. He’s sinking like a lead cannonball into the depths. The deeper he falls, the darker it gets. There’s no light here, not anymore. Something’s swimming toward him - he can feel the currents. It’s undulating. Unholy. Unknowable. Richard is frozen in place. The mass of ancient evil wraps one of its infinite tentacles around his neck. He screams, but no sound comes out. The pressure in his head is overwhelming. His life force fades from his body…_

Richard’s eyes fly open. He peels out of bed and staggers to the bathroom. Pukes up last night’s sins into the toilet bowl. Just another Sunday morning. He rinses his mouth and splashes his face with water, avoiding his reflection in the mirror until the last second. He looks like hell, and his neck is covered in hickies. Clutching his head, he lurches over to the kitchen. His Maine Coon follows him, meowing at the prospect of food.

“Not now, Ecbert.” Richard vomits in the sink, then pours himself a glass of water. He downs it in one sloppy go and then fills it again.

Something dark catches the corner of his eye. He drags his feet around to the living room. A black leather jacket is lying on the couch. He picks it up. It smells of smoke, beer, and just a hint of regrettable decisions. 

* * *

Richard crosses the ground floor of the Pied Piper Capital Management building. He’s vaguely aware of people greeting him and manages to mumble in reply some of the time (the coffee in his hand is still too hot to drink). His long burgundy scarf flaps around him; he flings it behind his shoulder in annoyance for the tenth time that morning. He stabs at the button to call the elevator; thankfully, the doors open for him right away, and he steps in. As the doors start to close, an arm shoves between the gap, triggering the doors to slide open again. A man holding a cup of coffee hops in to join Richard. His strawberry blond curls are secured in a ponytail, and he’s dressed almost identically to Richard, save for the scarf. 

“Richard Hendricks,” he greets. “We meet at last. Nice scarf, man.”

“Uh, thanks. Sorry, you are...?”

“I am you. On the internet, at least. Name’s Erlich Bachmann. Your PR team hired me as your Social Media Specialist. I'll be writing for all of the PPCM social media accounts, which now includes your personal Twitter. I will be clever. I will be pithy. And above all, I will be _politically correct._ ”

“Shit, I forgot that I OK’d that. I’ve been distracted lately. Anyway, welcome aboard.” Richard sniffs and rubs the tip of his nose with the back of his hand.

Erlich nods in understanding. “I’m more of a psychedelics guy myself, but I, too, occasionally partake in cocaine.”

Erlich bids him goodbye at an earlier floor. Richard savors the last three seconds of peace. The elevator doors open at his destination; he steps out and is ambushed in record time.

“Your mother called my work cell. Said it was a matter of life and death that you return her call. Although, I think she’s just having computer issues. Also, Gavin Belson is on line 3 for you. He refused to take a message,” says Jared at the same time that Monica says, “Thank God you’re here. I've got _the_ Chen and Chen from Chen  & Chen in your office. They're threatening to walk. I just barely talked them down. You need to get in there _right now._ ”

Richard’s 8-hour headache from yesterday is threatening a comeback. He holds a hand up. “Alright, alright. One at a time, _please._ ”

* * *

The least popular park in New York City is nonetheless pretty fucking crowded. Richard still doesn’t understand why Gavin insisted on meeting here. The trees are mediocre at best. Leaves are still green, which is some consolation in that there are no leaf-peepers around.

He leans against the side of his white Prius (an old model from his pre-billionaire days; he’s sentimental about it). He’s been dicking around on his phone for the past ten minutes and can’t help but wonder if Gavin’s making him wait on purpose. A petty sort of power play.

After another minute, a black Fisker Karma pulls up. Gavin steps out of the driver’s side. He doesn’t say hello. Neither does Richard.

“Did you leave your jacket on purpose?” Richard asks.

“We did shots of plastic bottle vodka. Nothing was on purpose.”

“Here. I had it dry-cleaned.” Richard extends the jacket to him. 

Gavin waves it away. “Keep it. I’ve got three more like it.”

Richard lets his arm drop to his side. “Then why did you demand to meet me here today?”

“Same reason you harassed me into dinner.”

An early autumn breeze picks up Richard’s long scarf and curls the end against Gavin’s neck.


	4. broken glass

Richard’s sweating. Not from physical exertion, which would be acceptable. No, it’s the fact that Gavin has the humidifier full blast and the heat cranked up to 95 degrees Fahrenheit - the “low end” of temperatures, as far as Bikram yoga goes. Why anyone would enjoy this godawful environment, let alone work out in it, is beyond his understanding. 

Gavin has the routine memorized, of course. Richard’s just been trying to keep up to the best of his ability, which is increasingly half-assed despite Gavin’s guidance. It’s a strange, sweaty pantomime. They’re on the tenth posture, or at least Gavin is: his legs are straight and he is touching his forehead to his knee. Richard, however, looks like he’s being possessed by a demon. He’s relieved when they flow into a different, easier posture: left leg on the ground, right foot pressed against the left thigh, palms joined together. 

Richard watches Gavin through the mirror. He looks better doing yoga than a 48-year-old man really should. _That’s my boyfriend_ , Richard thinks. It’s an inherently weird situation (and Gavin Belson can hardly be considered a boy). Back in October, their relationship just sort of _happened_ , like a UFO crash-landing to earth. They've been keeping it a secret ever since. Although, Richard halfway suspects that even if he told someone, they wouldn’t believe him.

His patience with this whole yoga thing has run out. The only reason he had agreed to try it was that Gavin had rolled up his shirtsleeves to his forearms before suggesting it… abuse of power, really.

Letting himself wobble quite a bit, Richard says, “Is this supposed to hurt my back?” 

“What? No. It’s only tree pose. Let me see what you’re doing.”

Gavin walks behind Richard and moves to place his hands on hips. Richard stops his wobbling before Gavin even touches him.

“Okay, you got me,” Gavin says. 

He presses a kiss to Richard’s temple. Richard turns his head and leans into Gavin, captures his lips. Tightening his grip on Richard’s hips, Gavin deepens the kiss. Richard smiles against Gavin’s hot mouth; Gavin shifts his body. In one smooth, hybrid yoga-ballroom move, Gavin leads Richard to the floor until he’s lying down with Gavin braced on top of him. 

“Shall we take this to the bedroom?” Face flushed and breathless, Richard reaches for the hem of Gavin’s shirt.

Gavin smirks. “We’re not leaving this room until after we finish the whole routine.”

Richard _hates_ hot yoga.

* * *

Richard sits at his desk, frustrated. He’s buried in paperwork, the type he doesn’t feel comfortable delegating to other people. He’s always prided himself on being a hands-on executive, the kind of guy his employees actually see in the building. But today? He would almost prefer to be at a meeting marathon instead. Someone knocks on his door, and he invites them in without looking up.

Ron walks in and closes the door behind him. “Heyyy, Rick-and-Morty.”

Richard sighs. “What have I done this time?” 

Ron saunters over to Richard’s desk and leans over so that his elbows are resting on the surface.

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Ron bats his eyelashes.

Richard looks him in the eye. “I have nothing to disclose.”

“Oh? So you haven’t been dis-clothes-ing a certain founder and CEO of Hooli, Inc.?” 

Richard’s pen falls out of his hand. It rolls off the desk and clatters onto the floor. “Swear to God, if you’ve been tapping my phones-“

“Relax, Richard. It was a hunch. Which you just confirmed. Anyway, I wouldn’t be doing my job if-“

“Stopstopstop. God, you’re worse than PR and Jared combined. Go do your job somewhere else. My dick is private business.” Richard makes a shooing motion at him.

“You are a public figure with a public dick,” Ron says, strangely gentle. “No one cares if you’re gay, or bi, or whatever. _Everyone_ cares if you’re fucking Gavin Belson. Remember this when it all blows up in your face.”

Ron exits the office and shuts the door quietly. Richard slumps over and puts his forehead against the desk. His throat is closing up. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Ex- fuck it, just suffocate.

* * *

It’s January, which means Gavin’s home gym is priceless - he won’t have to deal with the crush of New Years Resolution gym goers. He's been running on his treadmill for over an hour, and he's pushing for two hours, or maybe forever. His playlist switches to a quiet song, which he skips immediately. His workout music needs to be fast and loud, as he has a lot of things to drown out tonight… His doctor’s voice telling him that over-exercising “at his age” was bad for his joints. His board members prying into his private life, needling him about matters irrelevant to his ability to run the company. And stupid blue puppy eyes and fidgety hands and tiny curls on the nape of his neck _and._ Gavin crashes that train of thought. There were solid reasons for the decision he made earlier that day; he just needs to repeat that to himself until he believes it. 

At first, he swears the beats are going out of sync. He pauses the music - no, someone has been banging on the front door. He towels the sweat off his face and pads over to the door. Squints through the peephole. Figures. A little voice in his head warns him not to open the door (for some reason, it’s his doctor’s voice again).

He opens the door just a crack, and Richard Hendricks shoves his way inside. The sight of him physically hurts.

“Text message. You break up with me over _text message_.” Richard smells like whiskey, and his pupils are blown. Gavin can only hope that he didn’t drive over like this.

“Rumors are starting to spread, Richard." He hates himself for saying the next thing. “It was a business decision.”

Richard throws his iPhone at Gavin’s head. Gavin ducks. The phone audibly cracks when it bounces off the wall behind him. 

Gavin sucks in a breath and carries on, “And we were together for only three months.”

“Uh, yeah, because you ended it just now!” 

“You would have done the same, if you were thinking clearly. If you were _sober_ , you would understand that sacrifices have to be made."

Richard advances on him. “You sacrifice _things._ Time, money. Not _people._ God, you are so fucked up.” He grabs Gavin by the front of his shirt, makes a fist in his other hand.

”Not as fucked up as you.” He glances down at Richard’s trembling fist. “Go on, then. Punch me.”

A muscle in Richard’s jaw twitches. He hesitates, seething. 

“Do it,” Gavin snarls. “No one’s around. You don’t have to pretend to be the cute little geek. Just fucking punch me.”

Richard decks him in the nose. Gavin _hears_ cartilage break. Eyes watering up, he reels back and clutches his now-crooked nose in pain.

“You fucker... I can’t believe…” His hand comes away with blood on it. _Did this skinny asshole learn to box in Tulsa?_ he wonders. _He didn’t even hurt his hand._

Richard sniffs. “You see? It’s not so bad when we both get what we want.” He storms out and slams the door behind him.

“You forgot your phone!” Gavin hurls a vase at the door. It doesn’t shatter into enough pieces, so he grabs a couple of mason jars and breaks them good and proper. 

There were solid reasons for the decision he made earlier that day.


	5. relapse

Snowflakes drift outside the window of the cafe. The interior isn’t decorated for Valentine’s Day so much as Cupid projectile-vomited all over the place. Nothing has escaped the heart-shaped singularity, not even the latte foam designs. Richard fiddles with the zipper of ~~Gavin’s~~ his leather jacket. It’s the one thing he still can’t bring himself to burn, on account of how good it looks on him.

“...which made me wonder, would it be easier for a highly talented actor to get away with murder, compared to the average person?”

“Right? I’ve had the exact same thought.” Richard smiles across the table at his date. Sleek brown hair, dark eyes, athletic body: Morgan’s objectively hot, and smart and witty on top of that. 

“You know, I’m digging the beard look on you. Don’t think I’ve seen any photos of you where you weren’t clean-shaven.”

“Yeah, I figured, why not leave something to the imagination? Like, not everyone needs to see my whole face. I’m no chin-slut.”

She chuckles with him. It leaves him hollow, like the wind’s been knocked out from his lungs. He sips his latte. When he sets it down, the foam heart is cleaved down the middle.

His new phone buzzes. It’s a text from G: _Delete my number._

 _Delete mine first,_ Richard fires back.

Gavin’s reply is instantaneous: _Done. Happy Valentine’s Day._

Richard stabs at the screen with his fingers. Morgan is looking at him with concern - genuine concern. He can’t stand it.

“Morgan, I’m sorry. I can’t - I have to go. Something came up at work. Uh, this was fun. We’ll do this again sometime.”

* * *

Richard adjusts his green bowtie. He walks on stage, looks down at the sea of faces pointed in his direction. He’s done this so many times in his career that he no longer has the anxiety. Plus, chemicals help. 

“Welcome everyone to Pied Piper’s annual Four Leaf Clover Gala. I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone why we’re here today: to support the students who have a dream. My parents came to this country for a better life. It wasn’t easy for them to escape England, but they survived the difficult journey to Canada - where I was born - and finally found asylum in America. Today, all of us who have struggled and succeeded will be paying it forward to the future generation of scientists. We live in an era of skepticism against science: climate change, vaccines…” 

He trails off. There’s a ghost in the crowd. An uninvited spirit.

“...Uh, donations will be matched all night. Thank you and please welcome tonight’s musical guest, The National.”

The audience applauds as Richard hands over the stage. He returns to the ground floor, finds the tallest head out there (Jared) and pulls him aside.

“How the _fuck_ did Gavin get in?” he hisses.

“He did? I didn’t - I don’t know.” Jared pauses. “Should I have security escort him out?”

Richard opens his mouth to reply.

A voice cuts in, “It was I.”

Richard and Jared turn around. Erlich stands before them, holding a drink in each hand, courtesy of the free bar. 

“That’s right. I brought Gavin as my plus one instead of a beautiful lady. You see-”

“How much did he pay you?” Richard snaps. “Never mind. I don’t care.”

He stalks away. It’s time to exorcise Bowery Ballroom. 

* * *

“Let’s go. Outside.” Richard takes hold of Gavin’s arm.

Gavin resists. “Richard-” 

“Now.”

They step outside but stay under the awning, as it’s pouring rain. Foot traffic around them is minimal for Manhattan - mostly people huddled under black umbrellas, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. The sound of the band playing “Born to Beg” leaks out from behind the closed doors.

Richard crosses his arms tight against his chest; anxiety is bleeding under the surface of his skin. “Why did you come, Gavin? Huh? Why?”

Gavin looks… Richard would say _sad_ , but he’s convinced himself that the man is incapable of normal human emotion. He finds himself scrutinizing Gavin’s nose. It looks normal enough. He vaguely remembers driving to Gavin’s place after the break-up text. From there, his recollection exists only in bits and pieces. He still isn’t sure if he had really punched Gavin, and it doesn’t help that he had zero pain perception at the time. 

Gavin hesitates. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected.” 

“Bullshit. Just admit you’re here to torture me.”

“You’re the one who’s been torturing me. You never deleted my number, which means I always know when you’re drunk or high… which is most of the time. You’re certifiably _obsessed_ with me.”

Richard uncrosses his arms. “I am _not_ obsessed with you!”

A sudden gust sends a good splash of rain at their bodies. Richard shudders at the cold, but Gavin doesn’t flinch. They stare at each other, impassed. 

At last, Gavin says, “I came here to apologize.”

“Ha!” Richard yells, startling a nearby pedestrian. “Who even are you-”

Gavin cuts him off. “Richard, you little shit, just shut up and listen for once.” He closes his eyes and breathes deeply like he’s doing some kind of micro-meditation session. “I am sorry for ending it the way I did, and for pushing you out of my life.”

Richard looks down at his wet dress shoes and mumbles, “I’m sorry if I punched you… and I’m sorry if your Tesla didn’t start the next morning.”

“Wait, what?”

“Nothing.”

Gavin takes Richard by the hand and tugs him in the direction of the sidewalk. Richard stands his ground. “What are you doing?”

Gavin rolls his eyes, partially at himself. “I’m trying to be romantic. Just fucking do it, okay. Please.”

Against his better judgment, Richard lets Gavin lead him out into the rain. They touch their foreheads together, and Gavin hugs him, and it’s awful and cliche and really, really nice.

“I missed you,” Richard says into Gavin’s wet hair.

Gavin shifts a little bit; Richard’s beard hairs are tickling his neck. That beast has got to go. “I know.”

“This doesn’t mean I’m taking you back or anything.”

“I know.”

They stand in the middle of the sidewalk as souls flow around them. Richard’s surprised no one’s yelled at them to move - it’s New York, after all. 

“Uh,” he says. “Should we be doing this in public?”

Gavin thinks for a moment. “We’ve got good PR teams.”

He kisses Richard hard on the mouth, and suddenly Richard doesn’t want to die, not today.


	6. hurricane

The scent of freshly cut grass curls low in the morning air. Ducks chatter in the distance - they’re back early this year. Gavin has his arms around Richard, guiding him into a proper stroke. Meanwhile, Richard's brain stutters on _lean six sigma_ and _synergy_ \- Q2 was not kind to him, but he doesn’t mention such worries to Gavin. Their silent agreement to never discuss these things has always been in effect.

“Let’s try this again. Drop your shoulders. Relax your knees. Remember, the power comes from your whole body, not just your arms.” He steps back. 

Richard swings. They squint in the direction of the ball’s doomed trajectory. 

Gavin frowns and shakes his head. “If you’re a billionaire, and you’re bad at golf, are you even a billionaire?”

“Golf is _lame_ ,” Richard says, rolling his eyes. “I’d rather do anything else.”

Gavin passes a hand over his face. “Alright then, what do you want to do?”

* * *

The two billionaires start arguing during their trek from the golf course back to the car. Gavin speeds and weaves while Richard, white-knuckled, shrieks at him to stop driving like an asshole. By the time Gavin's car screeches to a halt outside Richard’s condo, Richard has sprouted a five o’clock shadow at noon. They sit in the car and bicker for nine and half more minutes, after which Gavin tries to kick Richard out of the car and drive off, but Richard succeeds in dragging Gavin out so as to “honor the terms.” On their way up, they run into Richard’s neighbor; she ignores Richard’s hello and gives them a dirty look. 

Once inside, Gavin sulks on the sofa as Richard sets up the game. After selecting their characters and arena, they pound out their disagreement with virtual attacks. Several rounds later, Gavin has gotten the hang of things but has yet to defeat the veteran beside him.

“You’re cheating right? You have to be cheating.”

“That would be… impressive, seeing as I’m sitting right next to you.” 

They fall back into silence, focused on their mashing of Gamecube controller buttons. Melee shouts of Captain Falcon and Ness punctuate the Final Destination arena music. 

“What the fuck!” Gavin yells. “I Falcon-kicked you to hell. You were one pixel away from death. No one’s supposed to come back from that.”

“I’m hard to kill, bitch.” 

Richard lets out a little Beavis chuckle as he KO’s Gavin off the screen. Game.

* * *

Gavin straightens the lapels of his suit for the third time and shifts in his seat for the fifth time. His nose itches again, but he keeps his hand on the armrest - he dares not scratch off the layer of makeup that the artist has just touched up. If he raises his eyebrows, the unfamiliar product in his hair exerts push-back onto his scalp. There are five cameras crowded around the (much smaller in real life) set: two pointed at his face, two pointed at Jimmy Kimmel’s face, and one to capture the wide angle. The producers stand out of reach, barking orders into their headsets, while the assistants scamper around on last minute tasks. At last, the cameras start rolling. Gavin waits for Jimmy to open the segment and cue him into their first planned topic of conversation.

“If I recall correctly, you are the first businessman, strictly, I’ve ever had on the show,” Jimmy says. “Do you have any advice for the downtrodden billionaires out there who have not yet achieved your level of fame?” 

Gavin cracks a smile. “Keep working hard, and don’t let toxic people into your life.”

“Solid advice. Thank you for sharing.” Jimmy pauses. “Speaking of celebrity status, are you aware of the _cult following_ that has been growing around you, in the dark corners of the internet?”

“I am not sure - could you clue me in?”

“For those of you not in the know, I’m referring to a certain legion of die-hard Gavin Belson fans. They call themselves _Beldaughters_." He quirks an eyebrow meaningfully.

The live studio audience laughs. Gavin executes a calculated look of befuddlement.

“I’m sorry - should I not have mentioned that? Is it awkward now?” Jimmy snickers.

“No, no! It’s fine.” Gavin chuckles in tandem. “I really can’t speak to how much of it is performance or irony, and how much of it is genuine. I’m no entertainer - I don’t survive on being loved - but I am grateful for the positive support nonetheless. I mean, I’m no Jeffrey Dean Morgan, so I’ll take what I can get.”

* * *

Richard lounges on the couch. The TV’s on, but he’s not paying attention. He’s mostly thinking about Gavin, the man who gets under his skin like a 30 gauge needle and electrifies every synapse in his body. It’s July, and they’re four months into their second go. He’s been trying to pinpoint when their new normal started up: shouting matches over insignificant details, followed by destruction of property on both sides, culminating in resolution by hate sex (Richard doesn’t get off anymore unless Gavin breaks him on the floor or against the wall, can’t even cum until Gavin whispers in his ear that he fucking hates him), only to circle back to fighting again. Maybe it was there from the first beginning, like a malignant tumor that lurks undetected until it grows big enough. Maybe it was all worth it to wake up in the morning and discover that Gavin hadn’t left - although Richard would still check that he was real by tracing his fingers around his laugh lines, through his sleep-floppy hair, down the tight muscles in his back, as many times as it took to be sure.

As if sending his inner turmoil, his two pit bulls, Gregor and Sandor, shift closer to him, snuggling deeper on either side of his lap. Ecbert’s fast asleep on his personal couch, but hell, even he’s been extra affectionate lately.

His doorbell rings. Richard heaves a sigh and mouths an apology to his dogs before standing up. Gregor and Sandor follow him to the door, wagging their tails at max speed.

Richard opens the portal to hell. His boyfriend’s there on his doorstep, black-eyed and malevolent. Their last discussion has faded to purple-green on his cheekbone and jaw. Richard entertains the idea of shutting the door in Gavin’s face and spending the rest of his life inside a circle of salt. But the moment passes, and Gavin walks inside. Richard’s dogs pounce on him in excitement. 

“Gregor, Sandor, _no._ Back.” Richard points at the couch. Ever optimistic, the dogs retreat to the couch and wait to play with their old friend. 

Gavin wastes no time. “You reported Hooli to the FTC. And the SEC.”

“Yeah, before I even met you.” Richard lifts his chin. “Have they finally started the investigation?”

“You had no right to sic the feds on me,” Gavin says, advancing on him. “Hooli’s foundation is not, never was, and never will be, a pyramid scheme.” 

Richard folds his arms. “That’s funny, ‘cause I have tons of evidence to the contrary.”

“I’ve been doing my own research. About you. And honestly, the deeper I dig, the more I realize I never fucking knew you at all. Here’s one example out of a hundred: you’ve been paying people across the country to come forward with sob stories about how Hooli has ruined their lives.”

“I only started that when you broke up with me!”

“But you didn’t stop after we got back together, oh no. It’s like you never believed we could make this work - you didn’t even want to try, so you chose your company over me. I was the _backup plan_ in your self-fulfilling prophecy.” Gavin jabs a finger at Richard’s chest.

Richard shoves Gavin back. “None of this would have happened if you had told everyone the truth. If you had just admitted that Hooli’s profits derive from an unsustainable recruitment system, not from the sale of stupid healing crystals and clay beads - which are an insult to modern medicine, by the way. You’re not the victim here. You’ve swindled millions of innocent individuals out of their savings. So no, I didn’t do it for myself. I did it for _justice._ ”

Gavin laughs, all bitter and bile. “Please. You don’t give a shit about those poor people. You’re doing this for fame and attention, for book deals and film deals, and for money - money that you will never see. You've lost _millions_ of dollars maintaining your billion dollar short position.”

“ _Actually,_ I have, as of late, profited from my short, and I donated all of the funds to charity.”

There’s an ugly silence. Gavin flashes back to the moment in the car when he first kissed Richard. He’s desperate to go tell his former self that this kid is too fucking gorgeous and bright to _ever_ be a stable investment. That he’s a hurricane trapped in a glass bottle, that the only forecast is massive destruction. If only he had been a little stronger against Richard’s pull, he wouldn’t be standing here with plans to come back with a can of gasoline and burn all of it down - the condo, Richard, himself.

“I thought I could love you into a different person,” Gavin says, at last. “I thought I could be your only high - that you’d stop using for me, instead of just using me.”

“No one asked you to do anything for me. If you’re done now, I kindly ask that you _get the fuck out of my house and out of my life!_ ” Richard is screaming now, unhinged. He doesn't hear his dogs barking.

“Gladly!” Gavin screams back.

“And don’t you fucking dare come crawling back!” 

“Oh, this backup plan is _gone_.”

Gavin slams the door behind him. The photo frames on the walls rattle - one of them falls down. Richard kicks over the nearest lamp; the loud noise startles his pets. He's off to find something to wipe this latest memory from his mind.

* * *

Richard Hendricks floats near the ceiling and watches a body perform the role of CEO of Pied Piper Capital Management. The body has been seated at the computer for the past hour, typing nothings into existence: numbers, or perhaps emails. It wears dark circles under its eyes, and a layer of scruff is crawling up its chin and jaw.

A flurry of clicking noises disturbs the peace. The tell-tale heels. Death is coming. The clicking reaches a crescendo behind his door. The finale: Amrita, head of Public Relations, flings the door open and storms over to his desk.

Richard reunites with his body and says, “Good morning, Amrita.” 

“Is it? Mr. Hendricks, we had an agreement that you would disclose to us any matters, public or private, that would affect the company’s image. Your relationship with Mr. Belson would fall in that category.”

She shoves her phone in his face and jabs a gel-coated fingernail at the screen.

“‘Gavin Belson Is a Secret Ginger’…? Not much of a secret.” He sniffs.

“No, not that one.” She navigates to a different page. “Here.”

“Hmm, there's actually some positive comments in there,” he hears himself say. “But we’re not together anymore. He’s dead to me. Ergo, I don’t care.”

“I think you do care. This is a category 5 shitstorm. Everyone on Wall Street will think you are shorting Hooli stock as a jilted lover, not as a hedge fund titan. You’ve been catching enough heat as it is, what with the miraculous immortality of HLIS. If we don’t contain this, your reputation will be swimming in the toilet along with your company.”

Richard looks away. “It will blow over. That’s what _fuck you money_ is for. And it’s not like I murdered someone.”

“I would have highly preferred that you did instead!” Her hand flies up to rub her temple. “Look, just say the word, and my team will start cleaning up this mess.”

“Erlich Bachman.”

“Excuse me?”

“The only person I authorize to touch this case is Erlich Bachman.”

Her mouth falls open. “It’s outside of his scope! He won’t be able to handle it!”

“He _will_ handle it, and you _will_ give him a raise. Now, please leave.” 

He scoots his chair closer to the desk. Amrita clicks away in a huff. His chest spasms, shrinks inward into a concentrated point of mass in his throat. The first of one hundred tears quivers in the corner of his eye. Richard Hendricks abandons his body and swims away into space.


	7. cough syrup

Jared’s eyes scan the screen in neat lines as he reads aloud in a soothing, audiobook narrator voice: 

_“...Today’s psycho-socio-politico-cultural environment is marked by fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the known. Fear of fear. We must therefore ask ourselves, what is it that we fear? Until we truly understand ourselves and our purpose of existence, we may not pass judgment on the private lives of other individuals. Richard Hendricks, founder and CEO of Pied Piper Capital Management, has always placed his company first. He will continue to serve his community and his clients with grace of character and trailblazing investment strategies...”_

After he finishes reading, he sets the tablet down on his lap and smiles. “Richard, this is a top-notch press release. Mr. Bachman answers the question by saying nothing at all. He should go into politics.”

“I guess." Richard rubs the back of his neck, and his fingers catch on an overgrown clump of curls. 

“I would print this out and frame it in my apartment, but I’m not allowed to put holes in the walls.” Jared pauses and offers his phone. “Do you want to read the article for yourself?”

Richard waves it away. “Nah. My head will explode if I see or hear the term _expensive revenge_ one more time. Plus, I read Erlich’s blurb like twenty times before I approved it,” he lies. He had skimmed it once, biting his knuckle the whole time to keep his consciousness anchored. After that, he had relinquished control of his body, just in time for the middle school hallway brawl that went down in the PPCM executive conference room.

Jared clasps his hands together. “I’d say good riddance to those clients anyway. You’ll recover from this. It’s not the first time a flock of non-visionaries have clamored for your resignation. And, fortunately for you, the news of the president’s impeachment proceedings is on track to bury this whole thing.”

Richard nods and mumbles something in reply. It’s a beautiful morning in Central Park, he tells himself. A lemon-yellow slash of sunlight warms the bench that he’s sharing with Jared. At the next bench over, an old man feeds slivered almonds to the squirrels. The summer air rings with community chatter and the laughter of children. It should be enough. _It should be enough._

* * *

BROOKLYN BRIDGE - 11:59pm

Richard presses his whole weight against the guardrail, leaching out his body heat into the hollowed metal. Next to him, a group of drunk tourists cackle and snap pics with the flash on. One of them bumps into Richard’s elbow without apologizing, forcing Richard to edge away. His breath leaves his lungs in puffs of vapor - he used to love that when he was little and pretend to be a dragon breathing fire. These days, he still chases that mythical creature.

“Were you really thinking of leaving the company?” Jared asks. “I mean, you had a win today.”

“Not the win I wanted.” Richard sighs. “I was thinking about _thinking about_ leaving. God knows everyone’s been trying to squeeze me out since July. I love and hate this city; I really do. It brings out the worst in me, but I can’t seem to leave for real. It’s like these streets are tangled up in my veins.”

Jared nods, but he doesn’t broach the subject of Gavin with Richard, or with himself, ever. It’s the only way he can still smile when he looks into his boss’s eyes. Every secret he learns about Richard gets curbstomped, tossed into a tiny cell and locked away for life. These prisoners, they scream every hour of the day, scratch their fingers to bloody stumps against the walls... but the prison guards just grin wide as they raise their tasers and batons. 

“I hear you. You’ve been receiving a lot of criticism lately, and it’s making you doubt yourself. But my faith in you has never wavered. I quit my job as Gavin Belson’s PA so I could come work for you. Because I believe in the world you want to create.”

Richard shakes his head. “I don’t create anything. I just push money around.”

“A good portion of which you push into activism and philanthropy. You’ve helped a lot of people, Richard.”

Richard doesn’t process Jared’s words. “Is the water cold?”

“I would think so,” Jared says softly. “It’s November. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

* * *

MANHATTAN BRIDGE - 11:59pm

Gavin hovers by the edge, silver-rooted hair stirring in the November wind. The rust-streaked railing in his grip barely reaches his elbows; below, the East River shimmers, black and oily.

He rakes in a breath.

Clenches his jaw.

Gets one leg up on the bottom bar.

“Don’t do it, man.” A homeless woman pushing a shopping cart full of overstuffed garbage bags limps over to him. “I know who you are. You’re that rich guy from TV. You built your empire using advanced knowledge from aliens.” 

Gavin steps back on the ground. “My empire is in ruins,” he says, brow furrowed. “Hendricks and his crew are probably out celebrating as we speak.”

“That’s the other guy. _Rich_ ard. He’s been colluding with reptilians since 1999.” She waves a clawed hand in the air. 

“He’s the reason my company is getting fucked by the federal government. I resigned as CEO this morning.” He purses his lips. “Got to wondering if I should step down from another position today.”

The woman snorts. “Fuck if I care. Who are you?” she says and limps off with her cart.

The stars disappear behind a thick layer of clouds.

Gavin climbs over the railing. 

* * *

Richard visits an acquaintance. The music is deafening. There are strangers there. Strangers with panaceas.

He’s there. 

He’s not there. 

Black.


	8. time of death

The pulse oximeter is making Richard’s finger itch, and he's fighting the urge to rip the too-ironic IV line out of his arm. He doesn’t need any of this - medical intervention in his body’s favor is highly unnecessary. It’s a rough night in the hospital - someone’s been coding every hour - so he hasn’t slept at all.

“You’re lucky that someone found you when they did,” Jared says. “You were one minute away from becoming a vegetable - two minutes away from death.” 

“Lucky, huh.” To occupy his trembling hand, Richard has been twisting and untwisting the ends of his beard.

“Why did you do it?” 

The strained anger in Jared’s voice startles Richard, so he laughs and looks away. 

“It was an accident. It was just supposed to be a heroin night, but then benzos happened, which I don't remember at all.”

“It’s not fucking funny,” Jared says, and Richard’s thrown off - he can’t remember the last time Jared swore in English. 

“Richard. _Look at me._ You’re 27 years old. You’re not gonna make it to 28 if you don’t get your shit together.”

Richard tries, but he can’t sustain eye contact with Jared. He refrains from telling him he has no interest in further birthdays. Instead, he says, “This tough love thing is new from you.”

Jared's eyes flash. “I’ve tried the gentle support with you. And sure, maybe I’ll never truly understand, but I’m here. Frankly, I don’t even know if you notice or care.”

“I don’t. Care, I mean. Neither should you.” Richard chews on his peeling bottom lip. 

“Fuck you.” Jared’s voice breaks. “I almost lost you.”

“Don’t… please…” 

“I wish I could lock you in a box where no one could hurt you - where you couldn’t hurt yourself. But that would be cruel.”

“Jared…”

“I didn’t tell anyone, like you asked. Which is, so far, the worst decision I have ever made.” Jared clenches his fists. He is cracking like a dam under the pressure of all of Richard’s secrets. “Please don’t make me regret it.”

Richard exhales until his lungs are empty. “I won’t.”

* * *

Time drips on like candle wax, each day melting and solidifying into the next. Richard Hendricks’s body does a fine job of marching the company forward. Its main nuisance is the weekly emails and phone calls from rehab facilities responding to “his requests for more information” (it suspects Jared). Richard himself is King of Clouds. He blooms and withers with ice and dust, rises and falls with heat and cold. On the third day of the new year, he returns to his vessel.

Richard stands up at his desk. It’s board meeting o’clock, and this one’s going to be a headache - the first one in January always is. Before he can leave his office, a visitor walks in: a young, pretty woman, all confidence in a rose gold pantsuit. She is holding a fishbowl with an envelope taped to it. 

“Richard Hendricks? I’m Sahar, Gavin Belson’s PA. Well, former PA, after this. This is the last thing I’m supposed to do for him.”

Careful not to spill any water, Sahar sets the fishbowl with the envelope on his desk and leaves the room.

Richard peers into the fishbowl: it contains a small, lethargic goldfish drifting about. The fish is dull orange save for a black patch encircling each of its glazed-over eyes. He peels off the envelope and removes the letter from inside.

_Dear Richard,_

_I do not usually foist neglected animals on former lovers, but life after you can only be described as exceptional. Consider the goldfish. This fellow belonged to my six-year-old niece. She had no interest in caring for him and happily accepted my offer to rehome him. Most people don’t know that a fishbowl is no place for a goldfish. A goldfish released into the wild can grow over a foot long, but if kept in a bowl, he will stay small, languish and suffer until his early death. I trust you to give this fish the home he deserves._

_I have moved out of New York as of yesterday. My new location will be Palo Alto, California, as you may have guessed. Here’s to fresh starts._

_Yours,  
G_

* * *

Three weeks later, Richard stands in his living room and admires his completed 150-gallon homage to California chaparral. Scrub-like aquatic plants sprout in shades of green and gold from a layer of white sand and serpentine rocks. A large piece of manzanita driftwood curves like a protective arm across the length of the tank. Gavin's goldfish (slightly bigger already, he swears) blubs around near the bottom, happily searching for food. His companions include a solid orange goldfish (Richard II), mollies, rosy barbs, zebra danios, and one small rubbermouth pleco (currently mouthing at the glass).

“Look at you, Gavin the Second. You have a tiny Spanish house and a bunch of cool tank mates. All you do is swim around and eat pellets and veggies. I truly envy your life.”

Ecbert walks up to Richard’s feet and meows.

“Don’t worry, Ecbert. You’re still the most spoiled one here.”

Richard retrieves his phone from his pocket makes a call. “Hey Jared, where are you?” 

_“I’m with the Cleganes at the dog run. They have ten minutes of play left in their schedule.”_

“Okay. When you’re done, I need you to cancel all of my meetings for the next seven days. I'm going to Jackson Hole.” 

_“...Wyoming? What’s there in Wyoming?”_

Hovering near the surface of the water, Gavin II swivels an eye in his direction.

“Closure.”

 _“I see,”_ Jared says quietly.

“Sending instructions now. I'm turning off my work phone tonight. Call my personal if you need anything.”

Richard II starts swimming up.

* * *

_Shifff. Shufff. Shifff. Shufff._

In steady rhythm, the ventilator pushes air through the man’s tracheostomy, inflating and deflating his lungs. He lies on the intensive care hospital bed with a hefty assortment of pillows cushioning his head, neck, and body. Every now and then, he glances over at the window, which is three-quarters covered on its right side by the curtain.

“Feeling more cheerful after you got your dilaudid?” his son asks from his bedside seat. “You’ve been fighting your nursing team and respiratory therapists all morning.” 

Grant Belson shakes his head slightly and makes a smoking motion.

“No cigarettes for you,” says Gavin. 

Grant gestures for the whiteboard and marker, which Gavin retrieves from the nightstand. His father writes on the small board with a shaky hand: _My doctor Asian woman. Nurses male. What kind of? Ready to die._

Before Gavin can reply, someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” he calls. 

Richard Hendricks ducks in, sweater hood pulled up over his head and a vase of flowers tucked under one arm. He’s clean-shaven and looks like a real human, blue eyes brighter than the white hospital lights. He offers Gavin a shy smile, and Gavin forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“How did you…?” he asks.

“Sahar,” Richard answers. “She gave no fucks.” 

Gavin smiles back. “That’s why I hired her.”

Richard sets the flowers down on the nightstand while Gavin pulls up a chair for him. Grant writes on the whiteboard: _Who that?_

“Dad, this is Richard Hendricks. We used to date.”

Grant’s cardiorespiratory monitor starts beeping - his blood pressure and pulse bottom out, and his ECG scribbles abnormal lines. The medical team rushes in as he flatlines, declaring code blue. Gavin and Richard back away from the bed. His team begins resuscitation and defibrillation cycles, one after another. Grant Belson lies still, mouth slack, eyes unfocused.

At last, the doctor steps back. “Call it,” she says.

The RN reads his watch. “Time of death: 10:41am.”

Gavin doesn’t say anything. Richard’s clumsy hand finds his; Gavin squeezes once, tight enough to cut off the blood supply to Richard's fingers. Then, he swallows hard and forces himself to let go. 

* * *

The Wyoming sky is a blank sheet of paper arcing over the cemetery. A shivering group of black-clad mourners bear witness as Grant Belson’s casket is lowered into the grave. They, in turn, are observed by a surrounding circle of skeleton-gray trees. 

“You gonna be okay?” Richard finally thinks to ask.

“My old man had a great life. He was an asshole until the very end.” Gavin smiles to himself. “Always swore I would do things differently than he did, but I turned out exactly the same.”

It doesn’t entirely answer Richard’s question. 

“I'm getting married,” Gavin adds. “To a woman.”

“I know. Dr. Lena Levinskaya, your ex-ex-fiancee from Palo Alto. You got back together with her in July,” Richard says quietly. “She couldn't make it out here?”

“She’s an ER doctor, so no.” He pauses. “We had our differences, in the past. But when I saw her again, it was like we picked up where we left off, in a good way. We’re good for each other.” 

The unspoken implication hangs between them. Richard doesn’t know why he laughs, but he does. “I heard Hooli bounced back, but I’m still not abandoning my short position.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Silence gives way to the first thumps of cold soil against the coffin lid. Richard stares at Gavin, committing their final accident to memory: Gavin, standing there in his black suit and black coat, snowflakes collecting on his shoulders, hair, eyelashes. 

At last, Richard clears his throat. “I’d better get going now. I’m flying back to New York in one hour.”

“Okay,” is all Gavin says, but it’s enough.

* * *

Richard’s flight attendants have enough tact to leave him alone during the flight. He doesn’t drink champagne, or anything. Just sits by the window and watches the lives of clouds pan out. Colors detonate in the sky as the sun sets, but it’s too much, too meteoric to last for more than a moment.


	9. back cover

  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152326003@N08/37053034073/in/dateposted/)  
  


this concludes my weird and prolonged exercise in whiskey thoughts.  
HUGE thanks to dmajor7th for rowing this canoe with me.

here's the soundtrack / playlist that follows the storyline:

**Cooler Than Me** // Mike Posner  
**Blank Space** // Taylor Swift  
**Paper Love** // Allie X  
**Fuck U** // Archive  
**Do I Wanna Know** // Arctic Monkeys  
**Candles** // Daughter  
**Colors** // Halsey  
**u** // Kendrick Lamar  
**Magnetic Field** // Lights  
**Nobody Else Will Be There** // The National  



End file.
